When Shadow Gives Way to Light
by chattympc
Summary: A recent case forces John to reevaluate his life and its belongings. JC This is a repost of the original Expensive Taste. I have made some major edits to it. Please read! Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zipo.
1. Chapter 1

Except for the thin streak of light that snuck in through the window from the full moon outside, the bedroom was dark. John Munch lay across his double bed, his lanky frame outstretched but far from relaxed, as the day's events cluttered his overactive mind. He had explored every avenue he could think of in hopes it would give him a lead on the Bennett case, but had still come up empty-handed. And to add to his frustration, Fin had been temporarily partnered with a detective from Brooklyn SVU, a young, cocky, know-it-all cop who looked to the seasoned officer like he should still be in high school instead of wearing a shield. The new assignment was keeping Fin preoccupied, not to mention away from the one-six. And even though Munch would never admit it, he missed seeing his partner around the station house and working side-by-side with him.

He felt restless, nestled beneath the heavy blankets and with the continuous sounds of the city filtering into his otherwise quiet apartment. Folding his arms beneath his head, staring up at the darkened and undefined ceiling, his thoughts settled on the telephone conversation he'd had toward the end of his work shift with an absent Fin.

_ "Nah, man, I'm telling you. You shoulda seen 'em. Looked like a couple of high school kids. All I do is offer up my badge when Lake asks her out to dinner." Silence filled the line, causing Fin to press the telephone closer to his ear as he waited for his partner to respond. "Hey, you still there?"_

_"Yeah," Munch answered absently. "I'm here. Sounds like they really have something." He hesitated before adding, "Look, uh, I need to get off of here."_

_"You okay?"_

_"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'll talk to you tomorrow."_

_"Yeah," Fin said. "Take it easy." _

Of course the cocky, know-it-all detective from Brooklyn would hit on Casey Novak. He was green in Munch's opinion, but sure as hell not stupid. After all, what normal, red-blooded male wouldn't notice Casey? She wasn't only beautiful but also smart and charming. What Munch couldn't figure out was, what was there about Lake that would interest her?

He rolled onto his side, catching sight of the neon red numbers that taunted him from the nightstand. Two thirteen. AM. Five hours had slowly passed since his telephone call with Fin. He had spent five restless hours in the tiny bed that he was nearly too long for, and had relived, for five long hours, past moments with Casey. The times when she would drop by the station, when she would offer gentle—even though inconsequential—touches to his arms or hands or shoulders, the rare occasions when she would accept his invitation to lunch, or when he had knowingly bent the law in the direction it needed to go and she had come to his rescue. It had been five seemingly endless hours longing for the spirited redhead.

Giving up on sleep, Munch tossed the heavy blankets aside and lowered his pajama-clad legs to the floor. The chilled wind flirted with the windowpanes and slinked through the aged grout, making its way across the room, causing him to shiver. He reached blindly for the bedside lamp, grasping at cold air in search of the pull string. Maybe he should have held on to the Clapper that Fin and Elliot had given him for his birthday. His fingers finally curved around and tugged on the beaded cord and the room was filled with a muted glow. John staggered into the bathroom, flipping the light on as he entered the room. He stared at his worn reflection in the mirror, each wrinkle on his face a reminder of times passed, hardships faced, and relationships failed. With his thoughts still preoccupied with Casey Novak, he opted for a cold shower despite the freezing temperatures the city offered.

Less than two hours later, John Munch was sitting at his desk immersed in the gruesome details of Audrey Bennett's case.

* * *

Olivia walked into the station at ten 'till seven. "At least I can beat Munch at getting the coffee started," she thought. However, as she neared her desk the smell of what Munch called 'coffee' assaulted her nose.

"Mornin' Munch," Olivia said, sarcasm detectable in her voice. "I see you got the coffee started. Can't thank you enough for that."

"Despite what your underdeveloped palette may say, this is a superb concoction," he responded as he swirled the black liquid in his cup and then lifted it to his lips.

Olivia rolled her eyes while filling her mug. Walking back to her desk and sitting down, she asked, "How's that case you caught the other night going?"

"No leads," he replied, producing what Olivia deduced was the case file. He sauntered towards her desk and placed it beside her mug. "Audrey Bennett, eighteen years old and seven months pregnant, was found on East 84th and Madison Avenue raped, beaten, and unconscious two nights ago. She was taken to Mt. Sinai and so far both the baby and she are in stable condition. Her right forearm was shattered and she has five broken ribs. Crime scene number one has yet to be determined; body was dumped on the corner." He pinched the bridge of his nose, collecting his thoughts before continuing. "The perp basically used her face as a punching bag: broken nose, shattered cheekbone, detached retina, and a deep cut along her left cheek." He hesitated, his expression becoming pained. "She has lesions along her back and torso from what are at least two separate weapons. Forensics is backlogged and we're waiting on their results." He reached across Olivia's desk for the roll of tape and grabbed the photographs documenting Audrey's injuries. Munch busied himself with arranging the images on the board and Olivia continued studying the case file until his voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Now, the vile works of these degenerates, sadly, never cease to amaze me. However, I have a feeling this was a premeditated and personal attack," he stated and looked towards Olivia. "Word from the peanut gallery?" he asked, turning away from the board and returning to his desk.

Olivia considered his suspicion and continued looking through the crime scene report. "That's a theory worth looking into. Has Audrey said anything that might support it?"

"She hasn't uttered a single word," Munch replied. He tossed his glasses onto his desk and ran his hands over his face, a gesture suggesting disillusionment rare to the cynical John Munch. "While she was still unconscious, I spent the better part of yesterday morning chasing down an endless paper trail that gave me nothing. The hospital contacted me in the afternoon to let me know she was awake. I stopped by but she wouldn't talk, so I decided to let her be. I thought maybe you could come along today and see if she opens up to you. I've re-interviewed witnesses, but no one seems to have seen or heard anything. Audrey just seems to have 'shown up.' Tell me, how the hell does a girl who is seven months pregnant just show up at the side of a building and no one sees anything?"

Olivia watched Munch's expression fluctuate from frustration to disappointment, and dropped the report on her desk, walking towards her friend. She thought back to the night that Maria Recinos phoned SVU, remembering the emotional toll the case had taken on her. She had worked to hide her obvious attachment, yet she had established a relationship, albeit unorthodox, with the little girl. Even now, the memories from that case remained fresh and the emotions it aroused in her were like the eerie silence that precedes chaos. "We live in a city where people live fast-paced lives. It's easy to get absorbed in our routines and not see what's happening around us. Add that to the fact that she was found in the early morning and most likely blended in with her surroundings." She placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder as his head dropped forward, a shadow of defeat crossing his face.

The doors to the squad room opened and Fin, followed by Elliot and Cragen, headed in. Munch looked up in surprise at his partner. "What, did Brooklyn get tired of you already?" he asked, bringing the murky liquid to his lips.

"You crack me up old man. To tell you the truth, I'm getting pretty fed up with Brooklyn myself. Got our perp though; meeting Novak for arraignment as soon as I grab the case files," he replied, nodding towards the box sitting on his desk.

Elliot sat a cup of coffee on Olivia's desk, causing John to look up.

"Can't you see she already has her coffee?" John asked.

Elliot rolled his eyes, grabbing the still half-filled mug of Munch's creation off of his partner's desk and dumping its contents into the trashcan as Olivia mouthed, "Thank you."

"All right, people, let's gather in ten to review the evidence on the Bennett case," Cragen said, heading into his office as his detectives readied themselves.

John gathered his notes and the case file from Olivia's desk, seeming dazed, and it wasn't until the third time Fin said his name that he looked up, muttering, "Huh?"

"I asked if you are feeling better than you were yesterday, although from the looks of it I'd say you never went to bed." Fin smirked, shooting a glance at his partner. "Hot night?"

"Yeah, like a snow day," he replied. "Let's just say I now know the intimate details of my aged bedroom ceiling. This bird made it to the nest by four this morning."

"Man, no wonder you're a sight for sore eyes. Want to talk about it?"

"No thanks, Dr. Phil," John replied, and was about to add to his sarcastic comeback when their captain called them over to the case board.

"What do we have on Audrey Bennett?"

Munch sighed, perched his glasses on his nose, and walked towards the bulletin. "It appears that no one knows much of anything about our vic. Up until six months ago she was one of five hundred girls at the Hewitt School on East Seventy-fifth Street. Classes ended the second week in June, but she dropped out three weeks short of finishing her junior year. Most of the students I was able to interview gave little indication to knowing her outside of class. However, many were out on a field trip so we need to head back there. From what I was able to gather, she was the quiet type. I imagine once we're able to interview more of the students from her class we'll have some indication as to who her friends might have been."

Munch leaned against his desk and removed his glasses, nodding in the direction of the board. "I'm thinking that once she found out she was pregnant, she dropped out." He gestured toward a photograph of Audrey with what the detectives assumed were her parents. Beside it was a newspaper clipping. His fingers skimmed the edge of a photocopied article dating back to August, and his gaze lingered on the couple pictured in it. "She's an only child. Her parents were killed four months ago in a car accident in Lincoln Tunnel, leaving her with no other family that we know of. Since then she's been living on her own in their apartment. Their life insurance was left in her name along with a sizeable inheritance. It seems that she has been living comfortably, but pretty much in seclusion. Since her parents' funeral, few people have seen or heard much from her."

Munch looked around the quiet room, observing his coworkers. He glanced down at his notes and continued with the case summary. "Neighbors say they stopped by a number of times but she never came to the door. The doorman said that every few days she'd go out, come back with some groceries, and he'd help her get them to her apartment. Aside from that, she seemed to have very little contact with anyone."

Elliot let out a long breath and walked towards the front of the room. "Do we know who the baby's father is?" he asked. "Is there a boyfriend we don't know about?"

"That's a possibility," Munch answered, his frustration evident on his face. "Hopefully a search of the apartment will turn up something. As for anybody she may have associated with, Hewitt is an all girls' school, and although it has some male staff, none had any direct contact with Audrey. In any case, I ran the names through the system. Didn't get a single hit."

"What about her doctor?" Olivia asked, still at her desk nursing her coffee. "She had to have been seeing an OB/GYN, right?"

Munch, once more, shook his head. "While interviewing her doorman yesterday, he mentioned that about once a month he'd help her get a cab to Amsterdam Avenue. I figure she must have been going to St. Luke's. Seems she's been seeing a Doctor Logan, but I checked and she's out of town for a medical conference." He sat down in his chair. "She's due back on Wednesday."

"Has Audrey given you anything to go on?" asked Cragen.

"Nothing," Munch responded. "She hasn't said a word to the doctors or me, and getting her to agree to the rape kit was almost impossible."

Cragen shook his head and approached the case photos tacked onto the board. "Any news from forensics?"

John glanced at the report from CSU. "Perp used a condom. Traces of spermicide but no semen. No fingerprints or DNA. Trace has yet to get back to us with findings from the scrapings collected from underneath her nails. Some fibers and residue were found on her body; those results along with details on the weapons used are pending. Given as we are missing a crime scene, there isn't much to go on."

Cragen nodded and started to walk away. "Olivia, John, go to Mt. Sinai and talk to Audrey. Maybe she'll be more willing to talk to a woman. Fin, Novak needs to see you and Lake before Henry Chanoor's indictment. Elliot, head back over to the Bennett's and see if the neighbors can tell you anything else about Audrey's parents. I want something solid by this afternoon." With that, he closed his office door and left his detectives to do their work.

* * *

The drive to Mt. Sinai had been quiet. Munch remained stoic and silent behind the wheel, and despite Olivia's need for the noise of the radio she left it off, taking note of his somber mood. Olivia cast a sideways glance at her co-worker and studied his weary appearance. The circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, hidden though not forgotten demons, and discomfort. It was a dangerous consequence of their job, she knew, to identify too closely with a case, a victim, but also a consequence that they had all suffered at one time or another.

Once at the hospital, Olivia and John headed up to the sixth floor. The door to Audrey Bennett's room was ajar. John knocked lightly, and knowing the eighteen-year-old was unlikely to speak up, stepped into the room. Both Olivia and he came to a standstill just inside the room, their gazes latching onto Audrey's motionless body in the silver frame, twin bed. She lay on her back, bruised eyes closed, swollen face as relaxed as possible, and with one hand cupped over her distended stomach. After a moment, her eyelids fluttered sleepily. She groaned and shifted stiffly as she saw Munch, her eyes filling with a mixture of relief and discontent. But when she noticed Olivia, she turned her head, staring out the wide, bare window on the opposite side of the room.

"Audrey, you remember me, right? Detective Munch?" John felt helpless as Audrey turned her back toward him, not meeting his concerned stare but focusing instead on the skyline of the city and the bland wintry sky.

Olivia pulled John aside, tilting her head closer to his and whispering, "John, why don't you go check in with one of the doctors and see what they can give you? Let me try to talk to her."

John nodded and stepped out of the room. He remained in the hallway, within earshot, hoping that he would hear Olivia make the breakthrough he hadn't yet been able to make with the traumatized teenager.

Olivia stepped up to the side of the bed, offered the young girl a sad smile, and nodded towards the chair by the window. "Hi, Audrey. My name is Olivia. Do you mind if I sit down so we can talk for a few minutes?"

Audrey looked at Olivia, her face relaxing slightly as she nodded.

From the hallway, all John could hear was silence, which he took as an indication that not even Olivia could get Audrey to open up. Disappointed, and even more disheartened, he turned and headed down the hall to find Audrey's doctor.

Olivia sat down beside the bed, smiling, hoping to offer the young girl some reassurance. "Audrey, can we talk about what happened Sunday night?"

She looked up, fear present in her eyes, and reached out for Olivia's hand. Her chin began to tremble as tears rolled down her face.

Olivia covered Audrey's hand with her own, her heart breaking as she watched Audrey shake her head in strong opposition, unable, Olivia assumed, to relive the events of that night. "Honey," Olivia said softly, "The only way we can help you and your baby is to find out what happened. And the only way we'll be able to do that is if you help us. So, can you do that, help us find who did this to you?"

Audrey used her other hand to wipe away the tears that fell haphazardly onto her cheeks. She pressed her eyes shut and bit her lip in hopes of controlling her reaction. Pulling her hand out of Olivia's, she turned her head, whispering, "No one can help me. Please go." She closed her eyes, falling still and remaining quiet until, convinced that the girl had fallen asleep, Olivia climbed out of the chair and walked slowly out of the impersonal, sterile room.

Spotting Munch at the other end of the hall, Olivia offered a small wave and headed towards him. "Get anything from the doctors?" she asked, coming to a stop beside him.

John nodded. "Let's head back to the station, I'll fill you in on the way."

* * *

Back in the sedan, situated uncomfortably on the passenger's side of the seat, John wondered why he had agreed to let Olivia drive. When they had walked out of the hospital, he had felt drained, the effects from the last few sleepless nights beginning to take their toll on him. But thanks to Olivia's aggressive driving, he was now wide-awake.

"How does Elliot do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

Munch held on tighter to the 'oh-shit' handle as he said, "Put up with your driving."

"He always gets to drive. Steals the keys every time. Besides, you look like death today. I'm sure your driving would be worse."

Munch nodded, leaning back in his seat and trying to relax. "So, did Audrey talk? Give you anything that might help?" he asked, knowing that Olivia's response would either give him some much needed relief or once again cause him to get lost in his dark thoughts.

"She's scared. When I asked her about Sunday night, she shut down. Said that no one can help her." Olivia paused at the light and glanced out her window. The city streets were filled with passersby, most walking briskly with their hands stuffed into coat pockets and heads tucked into their chests to brave the wind. She spotted a couple leaving the bistro across the street and noticed how the woman leaned in for a kiss and the man's arm wrapped around her shoulders while one hand rested protectively on her swollen stomach. Olivia felt a small smile grace her heart as she was reminded that, though her job presented her with the repulsive acts carried out by the human race, not everybody was screwed up. A small chuckle escaped her lips at the cliché admission. The light changed to green and she drove on, noticing the small flakes of snow that began to fall onto her windshield, melting upon arrival.

"Get anything from the doctors?" she asked.

"Dr. Browning has been Audrey's attending physician since she was admitted to the hospital. According to her, there weren't any injuries to Audrey's abdomen. The good doctor is theorizing that the rapist, in his twisted mind, didn't want to harm the fetus. As we already know, ligature marks were found on her arms and legs along with lacerations to her upper body. Her nose was broken and cheekbone fractured, and she suffered severe bruising to her inner thighs along with the trauma of the rape. But not a single scratch or bruise was found on her stomach. It seems our perp actually tried to protect the baby during the attack."

"That doesn't make sense," Olivia said, turning the car into the lot of the station house and parking. She turned to him, continuing. "Why'd the guy beat her if he was concerned about the baby? Why even target a pregnant woman?" She tossed Munch the keys, motioned to the door and gathered her belongings. Olivia stepped into the cold and walked briskly to the entrance of the precinct, shuddering once inside the warm confines of the building. John appeared a few seconds later, shaking off the wet snow that stained his coat collar.

"We'll go back to your twenty questions in a minute," John said as they stepped into the elevator. "But I was thinking about something the Doc said. The ligature marks found on her wrists suggest that her hands were tied together above her head, as if she was hanging. But, those on her legs seem to indicate that each one was tied to something, like so." He turned toward the back wall, spreading his legs shoulder-width apart and raising his hands above his head.

Olivia's eyes widened, taking in his rigid stance. "So you think she was attacked from behind?" she asked.

The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open, and John signaled for Olivia to step ahead. "No, I think she was first attacked, beaten and tied up, then raped."

Olivia paused, turning toward him. "If Audrey was held that way, suspended, it seems to me we aren't just looking for a crime scene. We're looking for some type of holding cell."

John nodded, adding, "Now, if this is how it happened then it would explain the fetus being spared."

They reached the glass-paned door to the bullpen and Olivia turned to look at him, "But it still doesn't answer any of the why's. Why the fetus wasn't hurt and why a pregnant woman was targeted."

"It doesn't tell us anything at all," Munch said, holding open the door to the squad room and motioning for Olivia to step inside ahead of him "Other than maybe the sadistic bastard actually has a conscience."

* * *

It was business as usual when Olivia and Munch walked into the squad room. Elliot was preoccupied with a telephone conversation, and the door to Cragen's office was ajar, the sounds of his voice drifting into the room.

"All right," Elliot said into the black telephone receiver, tapping the blunt end of his ink pen against the notepad he had been scribbling on. "Thank you. If you think of anything else, give me a call."

"Did you get something?" John asked, dropping his coat onto the edge of his desk and sitting in his chair. He noticed the newly added calendar that was tacked on beside the newspaper article, the only writing gracing its bare span being the few incidents they had been able to confirm.

"Nothing much from the neighbors. That," he said, motioning towards the phone that now sat cradled in its receiver, "was the Bennett's friendly doorman – Bernie. He's been the doorman at the Bennett's apartment building since before they moved in six years ago. He said Roger Bennett worked on Wall Street and his wife, Katherine, was a freelance photographer. According to Bernie, they were a normal family that lived a comfortable life."

"Is it just me or was Bernie the doorman no help at all?" John asked, openly frustrated, as he watched Elliot walk to the Plexiglas board at the front of the room

Elliot grabbed a dry erase marker from the board and twiddled with its cap before beginning to jot down notes and finishing off by circling a single day. He cleared his throat and stepped back from the bulletin, crossing his arms before continuing. "Roughly seven months ago, on the evening of May ninth, to be exact – " He smiled, glancing back at Munch. "Bernie remembers because it was his birthday - Mrs. Bennett left the building around ten thirty. Bernie said she seemed upset, was gone for about four hours, give or take. When she came back, she had Audrey with her. Bernie said Audrey was in pretty bad shape, her arm was bandaged, had a lot of bruises on her face, looked like someone had done a number on her. He asked if there was anything he could do but according to him, they were standoffish." Elliot scratched at his chin before continuing. "Now, despite her quiet nature, Bernie said Audrey was usually a cheerful girl. She would strike up conversation with him every few days and she had a girlfriends who would come home from school with her sometimes. But after that night he didn't see much of her, and by the end of the month she had dropped out of school."

For the first time since John had caught hold of the case, it started to finally make sense. _ She was attacked. She had to have been. But her name hadn't come up with any cases in the last three years in the NYPD registry. So she must not have reported it. _

"John…"

_ All this time she had been living with the trauma of her first attack. And now her parents were gone. _

"John!"

Munch looked up to see Cragen, Elliot, and Olivia all staring at him. He pushed his chair away from his desk, standing and leaning against it before continuing. "I think the answer here is fairly obvious. Audrey Bennett suffered from a broken arm and some sort of assault seven months ago. In the month that followed she became withdrawn and eventually dropped out of school. And now she's in the hospital, seven months pregnant and recovering from a brutal attack. This girl is scared, Cap. Part of it is from what she went through, sure, but what if…" He shrugged, glancing over the tops of his glasses at his captive audience. "Our rapist was careful not to harm Audrey's baby. He cared about it, but obviously not her. So, what if we're dealing with a second attack by the same perp? And what if Audrey was raped the first time seven months ago, on that night our doorman remembers? If she was—"

"Oh, God," Olivia said, sickened. "Then that means Audrey is pregnant with her rapist's child."

* * *

The winter sun made its last appearance of the day, peeking out through the clouds over the Hudson with ginger and mauve colored rays that teased the water's surface. An array of colors danced on the glass exteriors of tall buildings that seemed to disappear into the sky; the balmy and inviting shades disguised the frosty atmosphere that filled the city and dressed the streets with delusional warmth. For all the beauty that the setting sun had to offer, its early farewell on December afternoons was not among its fortes. The void it left behind was filled with the cold twilight as light vacated the corners of the city and drained the one-six of its glow, replacing it with subtle shadows. The already glum mood in the squad room had become perversely worse; each detective affected by the disturbing particulars of Audrey Bennett's case.

Olivia's face contorted, her lower lip quivering for a second before it turned white from the pressure of her teeth as they bit down on it. Her words still swam in her, creating a tangled web of implications and parallels. Images of Audrey in the hospital and mental photographs of her mother mingled in her mind. She inched towards the board, letting her fingertips trace the details of the smiles that once belonged to the Bennett family. Olivia cleared her throat and turned slightly to the group, pushing her hands into her pockets, weaving her thumbs through the belt loops, and resting her back against the board. "If there was a first attack we need a detailed sketch of the events of that night," she said, grabbing the marker from the edge of the board. She added a blank square and linked it to the picture of Audrey, captioning it 'fetus?' before returning to her desk. As she sat, she looked up at the others and nodded towards the board. "And that means we've got two victims now."

Cragen looked around the room, able to clearly see how worn out his detectives were. "All right, people, go home, get some rest. Elliot and Olivia, first thing in the morning I want you to work on getting access to Audrey's medical files, let's see if we can find anything that could shed some light on the events from May. Try to find out if Audrey received medical attention for her injuries and what those injuries were, specifically. Munch, Fin's back here tomorrow so I want you two to head over to Hewitt, see if you can pull her records. If you need to, bring Novak into it and get a warrant. Also, let's see if we can find her friends, anyone she's close to." With that the captain headed back into his office.

Munch watched Cragen slip away into the confines of his office, shutting the door and drawing the blinds so that only a sliver of light escaped. Opting for the rush of sub-zero temperatures filling his lungs over the solitude his apartment offered, John grabbed his coat off his desk and headed for the roof.

Elliot approached Olivia's desk, amused by the sight of loose papers spilling from the chaos of his side onto her uncluttered area. He sat down on the edge of her desk, crossing his arms and leaning forward. "Hey," he said, causing her to look up at him.

She caught his eyes and let a sad smile pass her lips. "Hey, yourself."

"You ok?" he asked, concern and curiosity lacing his voice.

She turned her face away from him, her eyes falling on the board. Her shoulders dropped and her posture relaxed. "Yeah," she answered, her voice slightly more frail and soft from being turned away. "I'm fine."

The shrill ring of her phone caused her to turn back to her desk. "Benson," she answered, cradling the earpiece between her ear and shoulder.

Elliot wound his way back to his desk, sitting down and logging onto his computer. He heard Olivia's laugh along with scattered bits of conversation. Elliot eyed her, turning up an eyebrow as she set the phone back in its cradle. He nudged the mouse out of the way and leaned forward on his forearms. Glancing around the room, noticing that everyone was immersed in conversation or in their own work, he looked back at Olivia. "You wanna grab a drink?" he asked.

She looked up, surprised by his offer. Cocking her head to one side and leaning back in her chair, she nodded lightly. "Yeah, that sounds good. Give me a half hour though? Casey's supposed to drop by in a few minutes."

"Does she have something new on the Bennett case?" Elliot asked.

"It's not about the case. Actually, she has a date tonight." As Elliot began to chuckle, Olivia added "No smart-ass remarks when she gets here, Stabler, or I'll make sure all you have on your desk for the rest of the week is Munch's coffee."

Elliot only smiled and reached for the phone. "You know, you'd think you would stop beating up on me," he said while punching numbers into the phone. "There are so many more entertaining things you could take up."

Olivia thought for a moment, before shaking her head, "Nope. Not really. Can't think of a single thing."

Casey came through the squad room door, grunting as she tried to balance her briefcase, purse and a shopping bag in her arms. Munch immediately looked up from his computer, jumping to his feet and heading over to her. As he reached for the shopping bag that was slipping out of Casey's grasp, he said with a slight smile, "Let me give you a hand with those."

Munch sat the bag down beside Olivia's desk and settled back in his chair, glancing up at the stunning redhead. He was sure she must have been saying something important, but at the moment he was captivated by the way her lips would move and then curve when she smiled. Her eyes glistened from the biting wind and her cheeks were flushed from the winter weather. As she removed her hat he heard her make a comment about how ridiculous her hair looked. Yet, John Munch was transfixed by her appearance. _Her hair's windblown, her face red from the cold and she looks beautiful. _Munch felt his mouth go dry and a flush creep up his neck and gradually warm the sides of his face. He pressed his chin into his chest and became immersed in the details of his desk calendar. Anything to save face.

"Thanks John," Casey said, sighing. Nodding in Olivia's direction, she added a breathless, "Hey Liv. Thanks for waiting."

"No problem," Olivia said. "Ready to get started?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Casey said, grabbing the shopping bag that Munch had deposited on the floor and following behind Olivia as they headed towards the women's locker room.

As Olivia passed by her partner's desk, she placed her hand gently on Elliot's shoulder, saying, "I'll be back in a few."

* * *

Elliot and John looked up as the steady beat of heels neared the squad room. Casey came to a stop in the doorway, having been transformed from the no-nonsense ADA who dressed conservatively in knee-length skirts and blouses to a seductive and alluring woman. The emerald-color, off the shoulder dress she wore matched the color of her eyes and fit snuggly against her shapely figure accentuating every curve but concealing any flaws.

Elliot eyed Casey and then Olivia beside her. He lifted an eyebrow at his partner and then nudged his head in Casey's direction, letting out a long, falling whistle. He leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles before adding, "Counselor, those softball uniforms do a serious injustice."

Casey allowed a small laugh to slip through her lips, nodding at Elliot in thanks for his compliment. She traced her right foot behind her left, tilting it on the floor before bending her knees and giving a playful curtsy. Olivia smirked at the silly act and walked around Casey to her desk, settling in her chair.

Casey set her briefcase beside Olivia's desk and nervously worked to iron out a non-existent wrinkle on her dress with her hands. She turned her head to the side slowly, red wisps of hair falling into her line of vision. Her eyes fell on John who sat silently at his desk, his hand resting idly against his cheek. As she stared at the detective, it occurred to her that on only a few select occasions she had seen his deep brown eyes; she found herself wishing that she could see what his tinted glasses masked. Yet, she realized the implications of the silent request would be to know John Munch on an intimate level she doubted she'd ever have access to. All of a sudden and for a reason she couldn't explain, she felt shy. A few seconds passed. Seconds filled with silence, without a word spoken by or reaction from John. And again unexplainably, Casey felt something she didn't expect. Disappointment.

Elliot and Olivia glanced at each other from their desks, her slim and arched eyebrow asking him what the hell was going on with those two. Elliot shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head to one side, making a mental note to revisit the topic later that night.

Casey forced a smile and turned to grab her purse. John's chair grinding against the floor caused her to raise her head in his direction. He approached her casually, grabbing her coat off of Olivia's desk and holding it out for her. As he neared her their eyes lingered on each other once more and he commented softly, "Casey, you look beautiful."

She glanced up at him, surprised by his delayed response. She felt a blush warm her cheeks and a toothy grin go on display. "Thank you." She threaded her arms through the sleeves of the coat and shrugged into it, securing the many buttons that lined its front. "Well, um, I should go. I'm supposed to meet Detective Lake for dinner in twenty minutes."

At the mention of Lake's name, the name that had pushed away his sleep the night before, John felt his breath escape, like he had been punched in the gut. "Well, have a great time."

The sudden change in John's demeanor was noticeable, surprising the others in the room. Under the weight of the quizzical stares being directed at him, he grabbed his coat and hurried out the room.

Casey cleared her throat, garnering both Elliot and Olivia's attention. "Hey, uh, Liv? Do you mind if I leave my bags and briefcase in your locker tonight? I'll stop by in the morning and get them."

"Oh yeah, sure," Olivia said. "I'll put them in the locker room." As Liv headed out of the room, Casey worked her fingers into her gloves.

"C'mon, Liv and I'll walk out with you," Elliot said, climbing out of his chair and placing his hand across the small of Casey's back as he ushered her toward the door.

Outside of the precinct, Casey hailed a cab, saying her good-bye's before Elliot and Olivia headed in the direction of O'Maley's two blocks away. After Casey gave directions to the driver and settled into the seat, she found her thoughts becoming consumed by John. She wondered what had brought about his sudden change in mood tonight. In the past she would have thought nothing of it, yet tonight she realized that she wished it had been his hand that had graced the small of her back. His company as she walked out of the precinct. His voice being the first she heard when she had walked back into the squad room. The realization that John Munch had become a fixture in her life and his company the source of a happiness she had never known brought an unexpected sinking feeling. It was the fearful awareness that not only had she gradually, blindly and chaotically fallen for a man; the feelings that it evoked in her were uncharted. The cabbie's voice interrupted her thoughts, and she searched through her purse for the right amount of change. As she made her way to the restaurant's entrance she struggled to hide the disappointment that cloaked her earlier excitement, her last thoughts before entering the establishment being of John Munch.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

When John Munch left the precinct, he considered hailing a cab to head home. Instead, his feet carried him along 5th Avenue and past Grand Central Station. The sounds of taxi horns, car doors slamming, and scattered laughter continued to interrupt his brooding thoughts. Stopping at the corner, he glanced at his haggard reflection on a shop window, fixing his hat upon his head and tightening his coat around his lanky form as the bitter wind cut through his thick scarf and whipped at the corners of his face, singing at the dried skin of his lips. He pressed his chin into his chest and kept walking, realizing that he was already at the south end of the park.

He grasped at the inside of his coat pocket, digging for some lip balm to ease the pain. When his fingers grazed the bottom, he traced the hole that had become worn. A sad smile graced his lips as he remembered the many winters the coat had warmed and protected him; his chapped lips cracking with the motion. His mouth began to burn, but he welcomed the small pain that replaced the numbness that had overtaken the rest of his body. He could have sworn that since leaving the precinct the temperature had dropped another ten degrees and the wind had become more turbulent. Truth be told, he was certain that even his bones were cold, yet it didn't bother him.

The city lights danced along the metal railings that led up the concrete stairs to the Met's entrance and the wind worked its way around the stone pillars and flags. His pace slowed as he neared East 84th Street, glancing down the long stretch and noticing how close the silent corner that knew so much was to him. He noticed the dimly lit area, shadows falling over the brick sides of the building. Shadows that hid any evidence of the truth. Shadows that witnessed what the street and its people failed to see. Shadows like those that haunted his own memories. The corner of East 84th and Madison, another square on the grid of Manhattan now tarnished by crimes against humanity. A corner he passed every morning and on most nights. One which, to John, now had a face and a name to go with it.

Olivia's words echoed in his mind, _"We live in a city where people live fast-paced lives. It's easy to get absorbed in our routines and not see what's happening around us. Add that to the fact that she was found in the early morning and most likely blended in with her surroundings."_

He finally came to a stop in front of the sterile building that had become swallowed by the darkness of the winter sky. Stepping through the revolving doors, he found himself suddenly captivated by the way the fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling in the hospital lobby teased the condensation on the glass windows. As he waited for the elevator, he reflected on why he was there. He was convinced that he had seen and heard it all during his years on the force, and this case did not fall outside of his experiences. But he couldn't deny that he had an uncommon attachment to it, and more specifically, to its victim.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor, feeling grateful that he did not have to share the small space with anyone else. The hallways were unnerving with narrow stretches of grayish tile, fluorescent lights reflecting off the waxed floor, and the echoes of monitors and machines reverberating off the pillars that divided the tall windows. He turned the corner and studied the row of doors leading into patients' rooms, all cracked open, letting a sliver of light inside, except for _hers_. Sitting at the nurses' station was a short, stout, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and tinges of gray at her roots. He walked towards her and tapped his knuckles lightly on the desk.

She looked up at him with a warm smile, and lay down her pen. "May I help you?"

John glanced at her, hesitant to speak up, realizing that he wasn't sure he could verbalize his reasons for being there. "I was wondering how the patient in room 646 is doing tonight," he said, nodding his head in the direction of Audrey's room.

The nurse looked him over once. Then again. "Are you family?" she asked warily.

John shook his head and reached into his pant pocket for his shield. He flashed it for her to see, and she nodded in acknowledgement. It was as if a silent understanding had been passed between them, his pained expression seeming to be explanation enough as to why a detective would be visiting at such a late hour.

She eyed him with a mix of compassion and hesitation before saying, "I'm afraid we had to sedate her a few hours ago. She became hysterical, and both the baby's and her heart rates became dangerously high. She'll be asleep until morning."

The woman resumed her work, checking over patient charts. After she lowered her gaze, John cleared his throat and offered an apologetic smile. "Do you mind if I check on her?"

She arched her brows, hesitating before nodding and agreeing to his request. "Fifteen minutes. That's all," she said as he smiled appreciatively and turned away. "Heaven knows that poor child hasn't had a single visitor."

John pretended not to hear her last statement, yet he found a mixture of pity and pain brewing inside at the thought that someone so young would have to go through something so horrible alone. It was difficult enough with the help of loved ones, but he knew it was almost impossible to face without the love and support of others. He cracked open the door, careful not to make extra noise. From outside the doorway he studied Audrey's sleeping form, her chestnut-color tresses splayed haphazardly over her pillow. The moonlight cast a subtle glow across her face, accentuating the bruises that outlined her eyes and jaw. He stepped towards her bed, dragging his boots to keep them from waking her. Even in her sedated slumber Audrey seemed to hold onto her fear, her hands grasping tightly at the loose blankets that fell to her side, pale skin blending into the white linens, and streaks from her dried tears visible on her discolored face. He reached for her chart, which hung off the end of the silver-framed bed, and flipped it open. His eyes scanned the page until they landed on the doctor's last entry. _Lorazepam, three mg administered by IV at 16:56._ Deciding against waking her, John returned the chart to its place and left the room, closing the door behind him. He gave the nurse a small wave and headed for the elevators. Stepping inside the chamber, once again finding himself alone, he clenched his fists at his sides. And even though he knew Audrey Bennett deserved his full attention, his thoughts had already left her and become lost in the past. A past as haunted as he knew the eighteen-year-old's would forever remain.

* * *

It has never been easy to define what team a memory is a part of. Spalding says that though a memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven, it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape. At times, a memory and its teammates are on your side. They allow you to relieve joyful moments of your youth and hold tightly to the milestones that shaped you into the individual you have become. All the same, they can be the enemy. Constant reminders of things and people lost, change in direction on that path that some call life, and even sometimes- a souvenir of all that you did wrong. A token charged with every ramification that a single act yielded. It is a symbol of the culmination of all of your mistakes. These small tidbits of ideas and events interweave themselves into the brain, the heart, and the self of any one person. You see, memories have the ability to fuel. To encourage success. To inspire life. A double-edged bladed weapon, knighting the future or digging at the wounds of the past. It has the ability to hold you back. The memory of what once was and can never be again is the most painful of all. The void it leaves erupts into a storm of melancholy and nostalgia. There are those that describe these passing moments as the necessary evils that have led them to their current state. Yet, others, like John Munch, look back on these times with regret. Each individual event serves as an additional reminder of mistakes. As if the solitude were not enough or the guilt all-consuming, these thoughts can corner you and bring about the darkness of the falling curtain in a final act. 

John's current mood, much like the scotch he had poured as soon as he returned home, was on the rocks. He sipped the amber-colored liquid from the heavy, crystal glass, wincing as the potent liquor rolled down and burned his throat. He swirled its contents, welcoming the chinking sound of the ice as it tore through the silence of his apartment. Coming to a stop in front of the large bookcase that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, he studied the colorful spines and the embossed letters that decorated the span of books. In the midst of the volumes that delved into the politics behind the Vietnam War, theories regarding JFK's assassination, the conspiracy that became Watergate, and even Orwell's _1984_ he found what had brought him to the shelves that he rarely had time to browse through anymore. Removing a tall, leather bound book, he turned it over in his hand, studying its worn cover, corners bent from use, each indentation in the edges evidence of its passages- home, college, Baltimore, New York. A record of the memories that would never leave him. Physically, the book was light, easily balanced in one hand, but emotionally it proved to be dead weight.

John grabbed a ceramic coaster off a nearby tray and set his glass on the dark cherry end table, carefully laying the book at its edge, handling it delicately as if its hellish contents could be freed by poor handling. He sat down in the plush leather recliner, stretching his long legs in front of him and wiggling his wool-covered toes. He pressed his back into the chair, bringing his right arm to rest behind his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Audrey's limp body on the street, bloody and pale, flooded his thoughts. Taking in a deep breath, he reached for the night's crutch of choice, gulping down the remaining scotch. He stood and walked to the wet bar, grabbing for the nearly full bottle of Highland Sherry-cask Scotch and carrying it back to his chair. He filled the glass short of the brim and set the bottle by his feet, keeping it close for the comfort he would continue to need. He cradled the book, bringing it gently to his lap and letting his fingers roam over the cover, corners of newspaper clippings peeking out from beneath its edges; its girth made larger by the many pictures that it housed. He gently opened it, revealing the first of many pages. His juvenile face with the early signs of facial hair and long-gone freckles stared back at him, a smile radiating into the camera, his arms draped around the frame of a slightly shorter and younger red-haired girl. Despite its faded appearance and evidence of spots from the acidic paper, the picture's vividness remained imprinted in his memory. Images of a sunny summer day in Maryland that held the promises of youth and impending adulthood. Of what once was and could never be again.

_In his sixteen years, patience had never been something John Munch had perfected. He stood at the bottom of stairs, leaning against the wooden railing, the morning sun falling through the living room window and outlining his lanky form. He banged on the wall, indicating he was anxious to leave for the park. If they caught the seven o'clock bus they could be at the park's gates by ten. If, the operative word. He heard her hair dryer grumble to life and let out an exasperated breath. "Renee! Let's move it!" he yelled, "I'm leaving!" With that he walked to the front door, making a point to trod heavily, and swung the door open, the bell that hung on its knob jingling loudly throughout the house._

_The scrawny, red-haired teenager scrambled down the stairs, snatching her bag off the banister and calling out, "Damn it John, hold up!" She grabbed her shoes by the front door and closed it on the way out. John sat on the steps, facing the street that was lit by the early morning sun. Renee Munch threw herself down beside her older brother and nudged him, motioning towards the door. "You lock the door while I get these shoes on. You know Mom would have a fit if we left it open."_

_She laced the new blue and white canvas shoe, finally placing her foot in it and tying a simple bow. She worked on the other then stood up and stretched, fetching a hair band from the pocket of her faded short-alls and gathering the waves of her thick locks at the base of her neck. She glanced at John who was now waiting for her at the end of the driveway, hands deep inside the pockets of his kaki pants, his back against the aged mailbox. She jogged to him and came to a stop, pausing at his side before playfully nudging him with her shoulder. "Come on John," she said, a smirk working at her lips, "we don't want to miss the bus."  
_

John set the book between his thigh and the armrest, gently pushing it away. He reached for the icy liquid, welcoming the numbness that it offered, and pushed himself out of the chair, treading languidly towards the fireplace. He arranged the wooden logs in the crib, cradling the smallest one in the center before laying the final one down. He stretched his hand above him, his fingers tracing the edge of the mantle until they stumbled upon the box of matches. Shaking the small box, he guessed that no more than three or four matches were inside, and made a mental note to pick more up tomorrow. In one swift motion he struck the match against the box, situating it above the row of holes that gassed the fire. The single flame that took up no more space than a teardrop was suddenly dispersed into a long row of orange that licked its way around the logs, even nursing its way to the small branch that lay protected by the wooden barriers. The thin branch became the embodiment of the flames, beginning to glow a deep yellow and then blue. He heard the distinct _crack_ of the wood burning, the fiery aroma reaching his nostrils. The small branch, despite its protected location, was now indistinguishable among the others. It was consumed, immersed, and destroyed in the flames of the fire, its remains promising to be ashes, reminders of what it once was. He rose from his knees, resting his hand on the edge of the bookcase before walking to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony and prying it open to allow the noises of the city in, regardless of the freezing wind.

_Trimper's Amusement Park. The sounds of children laughing as they ran along the boardwalk, bells jingling and announcing the latest winner of the Whack-A-Mole or Frog Bog, and the rings that signaled the start of the carousel combined to create a carefree atmosphere. John and Renee walked along the boardwalk, each with a Sno-Cone in hand, passing glances at the many booths that lined the seaside. The sun lay directly overhead, barely hidden behind the puffy clouds scattered across the sky. The scent of summer lingered in the air. Trips to the beach. Sand wedged into the far corners of aging shoes. Afternoons under the comforting shade from the decades old oaks that loomed overhead. All memories and icons of summers past and survived._

_Renee licked at the condensation that was beginning to drip around the corners of the cardboard cup, its colors of red and blue staining her thumb and index fingers. A Ferris Wheel stood at one end of the boardwalk, its red and yellow arms reaching away from its center to the orange carts trembling precariously at its tips. To one side of it stood the massive carousel, its forty-plus animals and carriages housing children of all ages, be it at heart or in the physical sense. Parents supported their young ones, careful to keep them situated on the wooden saddles; young couples sat in the carriages designated for two; teenage girls rode on zebras and giraffes, laughing at the childlike innocence that such rides offered. Renee glanced at John, urging him with her eyes to join her on the colorful circle, golden and tinted lights radiating from it. He rolled his eyes at her, a small chuckle escaping his lips._

_"Yeah, let's go," he said, tossing the remains of the watermelon slush into a nearby trashcan. He dug through the deep confines of his pocket, past the scattered coins and few bills, over the slim multifunction knife he'd gotten for his birthday, and finally around the roll of red and blue tickets. Blue tickets being worth one dollar and red tickets worth fifty cents. He handed Renee two blue tickets, well aware of the fact that she would want to ride more than once. And although John would not be quick to admit it, he could understand the appeal of such a childlike ride in her fifteen-year-old mind. Hell, he wouldn't disclose that even to him there was a certain magic associated with this classic ride, nearly seventy years old and having served countless generations. As they turned their stubs over to the operator, John cast a sideway glance at Renee, nudging her lightly with his elbow._

_"You know what this means, right?" he asked, looking at her with a knowing smirk on his face, as if he had been let in on a secret that she didn't yet know._

_She moved along with the herd of people, a few steps ahead of him, before turning to face him. "John, nothing's changed, you know. You're going to be riding alone today." She sniggered and turned away from his pathetic frown, focusing instead on the gate that was now near, people passing through it and heading for the carousel. She eyed the animals, searching for the ostrich that stood securely on one leg, its hefty black and white wings shaping her body and allowing for a saddle to sit riders._

_John stood silently, mentally plotting a way to convince her to ride with him, finally deciding on a simple bribe. "Simon Caldwell's black lab had a litter last month. There's still a little girl pup that he hasn't found an owner for," he mentioned casually, eying her face to gauge her reaction._

_She never bothered to warrant his suggestion with a response but rather, as soon as the gate was opened rushed to the colorful circle, making it clear that at least for now the discussion was over. John sighed and proceeded to walk for the carousel, skimming the menagerie of steeds, finally opting for the green dragon- the brilliant defender of treasures, a symbol of valor and protection.  
_

John continued to stare at the pages that so long ago had faded to yellow, the only evidence that time had passed. Sometimes he didn't know why he even looked through the book anymore when really its contents were already forever seared in his mind. He remembered every picture, every addition he had made when they were kids, and every word the newspaper articles had written that fall. Nearly eight years of old ticket stubs and park admission slips decorated the next page. For a long time they had gone as a family, their parents driving them every summer the three hours so that they could enjoy the festivities and colors of the amusement park at least once in the span of their vacation. But then his father had killed himself, the guilt and repercussions reverberating for years. After that, they no longer went as a family but rather skipped it for a couple of years before his mother considered John old enough to make the trip on his own. So, three years worth of tickets never made it into the scrapbook Renee and he had started. Three years he never wanted to relive. Three separate years he never wanted to remember. Three years that weren't meant to be celebrated or looked back on with joy. For any other person the absence of tickets from 1968 was easily overlooked. For John it was the last summer he ever went to Ocean City. The last time he celebrated a summer. The last time he rode the incredulous roller coaster. A summer when the last thing he ever wanted to do was save unused ticket stubs or welcome passes.

_The sun no longer sat directly overhead but rather was nestled between the clouds to the west, its fading rays the last remnants of day. The afternoon had brought with it a light breeze and clouded sky cooling the temperatures of the seaside, stirring up the smell of salt water and beaches. Families now filled the boardwalk, the number of park visitors having multiplied over the course of the day, a sea of red and yellow balloons resting above the heads of parents and children. John glanced down at his watch, mentally calculating that they had nearly an hour and a half before having to leave for the bus station. He eyed the Cyclone, its wooden framework elevating it nearly one hundred and twenty feet above ground, the Ocean City skyline beautifully outlined against the fading sun. He called out to Renee, taking the opportunity to tug at her arm when she stopped walking._

_"John, let go," she told him, a playful laughter erupting from within._

_John looked at her, determined to convince her to join him on the wooden giant before they left for home. "Reen, being a wimp is not befitting of you. Come on, you'll love it. Money back guarantee."_

_She rolled her eyes at him, pulling her forearm from his grasp, pretending to inspect a nonexistent bruise. "You know I'm a sucker for tradition. Wouldn't want to go breaking that, huh?" she asked, her cherry-colored bangs falling across her forehead and dangling in her eyes. "Besides, what fun would the trip home be if you couldn't pick on me for not being brave enough to ride? Tradition says you have to brag about your manliness." She stuck out her tongue, her playful banter chasing away John's bad mood._

_"Reen, come on! You can see all the city lights from up there. You'll love it," he said in an overly cheerful voice, hoping once more that his sales pitch would win him a riding companion._

_She stood defiantly, her stance unwavering as they neared the entrance to the ride, the line having thinned out as the sun began to set. "Damn it, John, stop with the drama. I'm not going. That's it. I'll catch you at the exit." She gave him a quick hug, whispering "Don't fall out!" into his ear before heading around to the exit, her steps a bit lighter and more playful. She turned to him while walking and called his name. "Make it quick. I'm starving." And with that she disappeared behind the herd of people, the only visual of her being the red locks she had tied back with her blue scarf._

John fumbled for the nearly half empty bottle of scotch, his fingers finally wrapping themselves around the neck. He unscrewed the top, letting the amber liquor tumble out of its confines into the now empty glass cup. His thoughts remained lingering on the summer afternoon, the symbol and high price that the fucking Cyclone had meant. He felt a cool liquid pass over his hand, noticing the contents of the glass beginning to spill over.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, wiping the excess scotch from the outside of the glass and setting it down on the ceramic coaster that now seemed too small. He staggered to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. The glow from the fire immersed the area with orange and reddish rays, the epitome of warmth on a night when not even New York felt the cold as he knew it. He snatched three squares of the paper towels; the ones decorated with snowflakes and oversized snowmen, promises of good tidings and joy. The little icons of holiday cheer became tinted with the malted liquid as he worked to wipe away the mess he was in no mood to make, much less in the mood to clean up. Rather than maneuver around the living room furniture, John stepped to the side, a few inches closer to the kitchen, trashcan in plain view, and flicked his wrist, sending the crumpled and soaked piece of holiday cheer spiraling to the bin. Fuckin' Mr. Daly was right. Not only did he look like a retarded gazelle with a spastic disorder but he really did suck at basketball. He ignored the ball of paper, deciding he'd bother with it later. Taking a seat in the chair of repressed memories, he grabbed the album again, the severity of the events that came next slamming into him just like the handle bar had when the Cyclone had taken its steepest dip.

_The surge of excitement that the Cyclone fed John kept his adrenaline going long after the ride was through. As he sauntered to the exit he ran his fingers through his straight hair, feeling the small tangles that had developed from the sixty-three plus miles per hour gusts. By now the sun had set, the light of dusk a mixture of dark purples and blues, small specks of white stars making their appearances for the night. He approached the wooden bench by the exit, looking around for the quirky redhead. As he looked around he noticed that the number of park visitors had thinned out considerably in the last two hours and yet, in the sea of those families that remained he was unable to spot a strand of auburn hair or fragments of a blue scarf. John dug his hands deep into his pockets and walked to the concession stands nearby, considering the possibility of her having gone off to quench whatever thirst or hunger was plaguing her now. He headed for the center of the square to the slightly elevated gazebo area, hoping that a view from higher up would bring her into sight._

_Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Nine hundred seconds. Three bells announcing that it was now a quarter to nine._

_Rather than letting the panic seize him, John jumped down from the side of the gazebo, landing solidly on the brick-lined ground below. He walked back in the direction of the coaster, refusing to let his pace speed up and nagging fears get to him. He followed the snaking path, most people walking towards the park's exit and away from this remote corner of the boardwalk. A gust of wind slid past John, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise while goose bumps lined his arms. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach, his haggard voice calling out her name, no longer worrying about keeping uneasiness at bay. Not caring if passersby stared at him with confusion or disregard. By now the panic had woven itself into his voice, the unsettling realization that something was wrong clenching itself around his heart, causing his hands to tighten at his side._

_The wooden bench remained primarily empty; its only occupants an empty Styrofoam cup, a straw wrapper, and a few randomly scattered uneaten kernels of corn. "Renee!" he called, the syllables barely making it past his lips as he struggled to find a bigger voice. "Renee!" This time he screamed, a deep vibrato taking hold of his voice, fear magnifying the sound. He looked past the bench, to the path that seemed to dead end at a fence, up the walk to the ride that only thirty minutes earlier he had been at, which less than an hour before he had tried to convince his sister to ride. Deciding that she was not in the area, he turned towards the food plaza, hoping to cross her path on his way. His footsteps were heavy, as if his shoes were filled with lead, as if speed was not of the essence. He was not more than a couple of feet from the wooden bench when he spotted something to the far right of his field of vision. He hesitated and then turned around, heading into the patchy area of green behind the bench, a space with an eerie sense of doom and mystery that housed an unexplainable familiarity. Caught in the full shrub was a small section of Renee's blue scarf, its threads waving freely in the evening's breeze. John staggered towards it, refusing to let his mind rationalize the implications of his finding. His fingers grappled at the small square of fabric, his voice refusing to surface, buried underneath terror unknown to him until now. He kept screaming her name. At least he thought he did. Beyond the shrub there was a small clearing, the glow of one of the park's light posts shining sinisterly overhead, a dark piece of fabric on the edge of the illuminated circle. He rushed forward, praying to a God he had forgotten long ago, that his suspicions were wrong, that the scarf wouldn't be Renee's, that tonight they would laugh about how she was looking for him and he had worried for no reason._

_The once blue and sheer fabric that held back her thick tresses was now heavy and stained with crimson-colored blood. To his right he saw a wet, red patch of grass, a sock and one blue and white canvas shoe._

_And then he saw her._

_She lay motionless in the far corner of the clearing, the grass beneath her saturated with blood. Running to her, falling onto his knees at her side, he cupped her head in his hands, leaning close to her face and whispering frantically, "Open your eyes, Renee! Come on, open your eyes for me!" The tears that had been held at bay with the fear finally spilled over and down his cheeks as the severity of the situation unveiled itself._

_"John?" she slurred, her eyes fluttering open as tears dribbled onto her cheeks. Struggling to choke down a breath, her eyelids slid closed and she fell limp in his arms._

_"Reen, please stay with me." He jumped up, running to the edge of the clearing, screaming for anyone to come to their aid, for a single pair of ears to heed his cries. John heard a strangled cough escape through her lips, temporarily displaced by her sobs. He reached for her, turning her carefully on her side so that she would not choke on the blood and tears. "Somebody help us! Please! Somebody! Help! We need an ambulance! Now!"  
_

He was fairly sure that not more than two minutes passed before someone saw them and got help. The events remained a blur, a long series of fractured moments. He grabbed the half-empty scotch bottle, refilling his glass, forgoing the ice and adding an extra shot. He pushed the book aside, deciding to take a short break, and stood, walking out on to the balcony that looked down on Manhattan, welcoming the blast of cold as it wrapped its bitter fingers around him. He closed his eyes, breathing in the city, the people, the lights. The view he had of Manhattan. These were the city lights she had first fallen in love with.

_All John could do was watch, his face a frozen mask of emotions as he held onto to Renee's hand, the one that was unbroken, wan, and without life being pumped into it by an IV. The confines of the ambulance were stifling, the small space seeming cramped with the four people inside of it. The two paramedics kept exchanging information, one working on her vitals as the other one tried to ask him questions. John said very little throughout the ride to the hospital, his only words being gentle whispers into Renee's ear, phrases of reassurance, promises of safety, pleading for forgiveness, words that tears could not replace. "Renee…listen to me. It's going to be okay. Mom's meeting us at the hospital. Stay with me. Please, don't leave me. I'm so sorry! Renee, I'm so sorry! It'll be all right. No one can hurt you now."_

_At the hospital he sat in a corner of the waiting room, huddled and hidden behind the rows of hard, plastic chairs. Renee had been taken into surgery, her left arm needing a nail and plate. And so he sat, waiting for his mother to arrive. He struggled with his feelings, the indecision, not quite sure he wanted to see his mother, afraid of the disappointment and anger she would harbor towards him. Time passed, the hour hand on the clock above the nurses' station working its way around two more times before he heard his mother's hysterical voice approach. She reached for John, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him close, pressing her face into his shoulder, her body shaking as she struggled to compose herself. They stood there, mother and son, grasping at one another so they could elude the horror._

_He sat by her bed, watching as each breath filled her body and escaped her lips, causing her chest to fall. The steady beeping of machines lulled him in and out of sleep, each time he came to the reality slapping him across the face. The swelling on her face and bruising on her neck intensified with each passing minute, a branding of the crime performed. Periodically throughout the night she would offer him a gentle squeeze of his hand, reassuring his insecurity. She didn't know the pain and disgust that broiled within him. How could _he_ be the one needing reassurance? How could _he_ be the one that needed comforting? How could _he_ feel alone when guilt was such good company. The guilt…nothing could assuage it. Anger seized him: anger at the criminal responsible and, anger at himself. He laid his forehead on his arm, not letting go of her hand, while fragments of the doctor's conversation with his mom came back to him…_

_raped… penetration…semen…broken ribs…concussion…raped…raped…raped…  
_

By now the snow had begun to fall, small flakes descending upon the city, a few adorning his eyebrows and strands of hair. John turned back into the apartment, leaving the balcony door ajar and set the empty glass on the mantle, grabbing at the spoke that stood near the fire. He prodded behind the mesh, bringing the burning logs to the foreground. He channeled anger and despair into the metal bar, stabbing at the few remains of wood. The small branch that had been so protected and secure now nothing more than a few flakes of ashes, light enough for a passing breeze to lift and send away. John picked up the hackneyed scrapbook, holding it tightly to his chest as the memories that it retained flooded him with an overwhelming sense of pain. He flipped through thirteen pages, finally landing on the first of the many clippings, yellowed and faded but the content forever etched in his memory.

**"Assault at Trimpers Rides, Suspect Still at Large"**

_John carried her dinner upstairs, coming to a stop outside of Renee's door. He knocked gently with one hand, balancing the tray of food in his other. He ran his nails across the wooden frame, the gentle humming sound it created slightly comforting in the silence. "Reen, you have to eat. You're only hurting yourself. Please, we can get through this. Let me help." His mind screamed at him. _Help me to help you. _But for as often as he had begged her over the past two months, her response was always the same. Silence._

_The days were never a fraction of what they used to be. No one to walk with to school. No one to walk home with. No one to laugh at his jokes or poke fun at him. It became necessary for John to announce when he walked into the house; surprises were no longer welcomed._

_By mid-October nearly three months had passed since the rape. The leaves had begun to change colors, those that used to be green now tinged with red and yellow. Some had fallen into small disorderly piles at the base of the tree, small mountains of yellow and orange and red. One of that fall's first cold fronts came in that day, the bitter wind howling down the long and empty street. John trampled inside, his cheeks flushed and nose reddened by the dropping temperatures. He spotted his mother in the living room, her back to him, as she stared at the mantle. No, correction. She looked through the mantle. The atmosphere of the room was eerie, her silence causing unrest within John. He gently laid his hand on her shoulder, urging her to turn away and face him. He looked at her eyes, seemingly glassed over and devoid of life, devoid of their sparkle. He swallowed, his throat feeling dry and dull._

_"Mom. What is it? Is it Renee?"_

_She turned away from him, instead looking out into their backyard, while she held his hand on top of her shoulder. Her fragile voice cut through the tension and silence of the room, delivering one final blow._

_"John. Renee is…she's…pregnant."_

_He turned his mother around, staring at her as if reading her eyes, hoping that they would tell something different from what he had just heard. The realization that the only thing having been spoken was the truth hit him like a kick to his side, his face blanketed with disbelief and pain, and the feeling inside as if his already broken heart had suddenly shattered completely.  
_

John placed his empty glass on the coffee table, turning another page in the book, feeling his stomach settle in his throat for the thousandth time in what felt like as many years as he re-read the newspaper headline that he had long ago committed to memory.

**Five Months Later Ocean City Assault Remains Unsolved**

_For months following the attack, John slept on the floor in Renee's bedroom. He had to stay close, to protect her. To somehow, in some way, make up for not protecting her when she needed him to most. Time appeared to slow after the rape, each day seeming longer, more difficult to survive than the one before it. Each day Renee smiled less, cried more, and stayed in her room for even longer stretches of time. Each day John watched a little more of her die, and each day his guilt intensified more.  
_

He still remembered the day when life seemed to stop completely, a warm Thursday afternoon when pieces of grass had finally peeked out from the thawing white patches. He had dragged his feet during his walk home from school. Renee had a doctor's appointment that morning; at nearly eight months along she had begun to see the doctor twice a month. And after each visit, life was almost unbearable in the Munch house. If there weren't tears, there was silence. But there was never excitement or anything that resembled happiness. There was never normalcy.

_He turned onto Cherokee Street, his breath instantly catching in his throat. Lights. Flashing. Bright and blinding. He ran towards his house, casting his bag aside as he skidded to a stop in the yard beside his mother._

_"Where's Renee?" he gasped, the air failing to reach his lungs as fast as he would have liked._

_His mother only stared, her eyes filled with tears but with even more expectance._

_"Damn it, Mother! Where's Renee?! Why is the ambulance here? Why do we need an ambulance?" He rambled question after question, not waiting for a response to any one in particular, but instead following it with another one._

_It was then that the reality set in. It was at that moment that John's world dissolved into a deep abyss. He found himself alone, completely alone, except for the guilt that quickly became his only companion.  
_

He remembered the sight as they brought her body out, her rounded, distended stomach noticeable and pronounced beneath the blue sheet that shrouded her lifeless body. He had taught himself over the years to only remember the good. Their childhood, growing up… But he hadn't only lost his sister; he had lost his best friend. Their plans extinguished and precious hopes no longer there. When they were children he would give her piggyback rides because she was too tired to walk home. After all, according to her, first grade was exhausting. But when the time came that she truly needed him to carry her, to take from her the weight of misunderstanding and humiliation and fear, he let her go. The pain had been too much, impossible to heal from or alleviate.

John spent years drowning in anger, anger because she was gone but not that she had taken her own life. He spent years being angry with himself. His mother never looked at him the same after Renee's death. Every time he looked into her eyes he saw the void that had consumed her life. Was it anger, disappointment, or was he simply too painful of a reminder? The small announcement that was distributed at the ceremony slipped through his fingers, landing haphazardly on the floor by his feet, its words blatantly staring back at him.

_Renee Audrey Munch: Beloved daughter & cherished sister._

Cherished was never a good enough word for her.


	3. Chapter 3

The hollow echoes from stiletto heels worked their way down the long marble hallway, pillars of peach and bronze acting as sounding boards with gleaming oak doors decorating their sleek structure. Casey's steps were lazy, dragging themselves along the recently waxed tile settings that ran down the stretch, followed intimately by the heavy trodden strides of Chester Lake. She stopped in front of her door, turning to face her date, her red locks scattered over her bare shoulders. She tilted her chin up, her olive-shaded eyes twinkling from the warmth that radiated from the hanging lights, a champagne induced smile appearing on her lips.

"I had a good time tonight. A surprisingly good time," she said, her eyes focused on him, subtle dimples decorating her cheeks from her lopsided grin.

Chester took in her appearance, her face slightly reddened from the cold night and her paled skin boldly secured and accented in her emerald-colored gown. "I did, too. It was my pleasure Casey. I told you I'd keep your expensive taste in mind," he said, smiling and then leaning gradually forward, one hand resting on her hip as the other cupped her wind-chilled cheek. Stroking his thumb along her jaw line gently, his calloused fingers caused goose bumps to erupt over her skin. He added a slight pressure to her waist, pulling at her suggestively until she fell into his arms. "I'm going to kiss you now," he said, lowering his chin towards her, his forehead resting on hers as she nodded languidly, his lips descending first on her temple and then on her cheek.

She let her eyelids droop, finally shifting her face and capturing his lips with hers, letting her tongue tease his mouth open, yet prodding for permission. He parted his lips, feeding on her hers as he allowed her to explore his mouth, her tongue dancing firmly around his before caressing his palette. She opened her eyes when she felt his arm finally work its way around her waist, pressing her tightly to his body, his arousal nudging at her side.

He rested his cheek against her hair while he nibbled at her ear, his warm breath thawing her skin. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Casey reached for the doorknob, turning it as he tangled his hands in her hair; they stumbled into the darkness of her apartment, his mouth desperately feeding off of her. He nipped at her shoulders, his moist lips lingering and then working their way to her collar bone, gradually ascending up her neck and landing on her mouth once more. She carefully backtracked into her living room, the moon casting the only light through the window that spanned the length of one wall, overlooking the streets of Manhattan. The back of her knees collided with the couch, causing her to reach out with her hand to catch herself. Chester supported her back, slowly lowering her onto the sofa, resting his weight on his forearms and the knee that had become nestled between Casey's legs.

She opened her eyes, the illusion that had crystallized in her mind instantly shattered. She thought back to college when her roommate brought home _Moonstruck_, when she watched Cher with hair twice as large as her head, and fell in love with Nicolas Cage. When she first learned that the moon had a bewitching and mesmerizing power. And now, as she found herself drowning in the deep brown eyes staring back, the moon cast its invasive rays across a face and brows she hadn't seen in her mind. Brown eyes that she didn't want to see. A small gasp escaped her lips, her chest rising and falling steadily, as surprise registered in her expression. She pulled away from Chester's light grasp and turned on her side, her forearm pressing into his stomach as she pushed her body off of the sofa. She turned away from the man that for a few fleeting moments her heart had convinced her mind was John Munch. While she gathered her thoughts, her composure, her collected lawyerly self, she ran a hand through her hair, untangling the tresses that throughout the course of the evening had given up on being straight and had finally surrendered to the moist winter air, letting the thick waves resurface, and pressed her other hand against the skirt of her dress, ironing out the nonexistent wrinkles in the fabric.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, turning on her heels to look him over. She wrapped her arms around her torso and cocked her head to one side. "This shouldn't have happened."

He stepped towards her, bypassing the coffee table that stood between their bodies, and placed his hands on her shoulders, soothingly running his hands up and down her arms as he tried to ease the awkwardness. "Hey, hey," he whispered, resting his index finger under her chin as he tilted her face in his direction. "What are you sorry for? That was great."

Casey pulled away, avoiding his questioning and confusing glance, and walked to the glass panes, reaching for the lace tie that collected the burgundy drapes. "You should go," she said, her back still facing him, "I've given you the wrong impression. I'm sorry, but this isn't right." She worked her fingers through the delicate bow that held the fabric in place, finally drawing a strand towards her which caused the thick material to cascade along the pewter rod, the delicate pleats scattering throughout.

Chester walked towards the door, pausing at the edge of the sofa and leaning his hip against it. A small lamp stood on the end table and he reached underneath the shade, turning the knob and letting the subtle light fill the room, a colorful array of beams radiating from the stained glass cover. He looked at her outline and let out a shallow breath. "I don't get it. Why isn't it right? What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," she answered calmly. Stoically. With purpose and resolve. _But you aren't John. Your eyes may be brown, but not like his._

He stood and walked into the entryway, his hand hovering above the knob. He turned back to look into the living room, her body now turned in his direction. "Casey, I really did have a good time tonight. I hope that maybe we can do it again sometime." He pulled open the door, a shrill sound pealing through the hall, an annoying reminder that the door hinges were long overdue for some grease. His hollow steps retreated from apartment 4D and as the door shut on its own and Casey walked over to bolt it, his resonating footsteps became inaudible.

She remained by the door, tilting her head forward and resting it on the glossy wood. She closed her eyes and drank in the dark, solitary atmosphere of her apartment. A vast loft in upper Manhattan where the only company was the delivery boy from Café East on weekdays, the pizza guy from Mama Mia's on weekends, and on occasion Olivia or Elliot when the weather dictated it impossible for her to arrive to court on her bike. She walked back into the room, reaching for the lamp that only moments earlier had been turned on and returned the room to darkness. A sad smile settled on her lips as only a flake of the moonlight's rays filtered through and danced on the glass lid of her mother's china cabinet. Rays that not so long ago had forced her mind and heart to collide, but now left her with an indescribable void and unsatisfied desire. She sauntered down the long hallway, her fingers dragging along the white wall as she approached her bedroom; she was suddenly exhausted by her unanswered and unsettling thoughts.

* * *

On the streets of Manhattan, where the city was still waking and vendors had yet to lift their gates, where steam ducts released white clouds of warm air that licked the winter morning, and the lights of holiday decorations that were sprinkled along the city blocks had now been turned off, John sat in the department sedan, the radio a soft hum in the confines of the vehicle. He struck the horn twice, looking up at Fin's apartment nestled in the east corner of the building, the breaking dawn striking the worn brick exterior. He brushed his hands together roughly, trying to warm them inside the thin lining of his gloves.

Fin zipped his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he pushed the door leading into his building open with his back, cursing the fucking weatherman that had cheerfully predicted a daytime high of twelve and wind chill of minus two. Dark patches of ice decorated the sidewalks, nearly unnoticeable obstacles that were scattered on the street; he walked to the sedan, carefully avoiding the hurdles, and welcomed the heat that radiated from the car's exhaust. He grabbed at the door handle, breaking away at the small bits of ice that sealed it, and pulled it open, the sounds of rusty and ungreased junctures echoing in the silence of the street.

John watched Fin get in and nodded at him, putting the car into drive and looking at the street over his left shoulder, "Good morning."

A grunt escaped Fin's lips as he worked the seatbelt, his fingers mildly numb from the short walk to the car, stumbling with the buckle before finally hearing it click into place. He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs in front of him, and looked out his window, the view slightly fogged by the thawing ice. "Damn weather," he murmured under his breath.

John stopped at the light, looking for an empty spot in front of the coffee shop. He pulled into a tight space, shutting the engine off and unbuckling his belt. He propped the door open, placing one foot out onto the pavement, and looked at Fin who hadn't moved from his spot.

"Come on Detective Tutuola, coffee's on me this morning," he said, now standing outside of the car, leaning against the door frame. "And, cheer up. Jack Frost is in town, didn't you get the memo?"

* * *

Olivia sat in the sedan, the purring of the engine soothing her thoughts, pushing concerns into remote corners of her mind, tucking away the demons for a day, knowing that come nightfall they would return. Her thoughts lingered on the Bennett case, the line dividing the aspects of her life having blurred, leaving a cacophony of emotions she had never successfully dealt with but had rather sought to bury beneath what she could understand. And as her thoughts strayed off the tangents that were events in her life, hallmarks, she couldn't help but draw the parallel. She couldn't help but wonder if the death she had seen in the eyes of Audrey Bennett once also filled the eyes of Serena Benson.

Only one picture of a pregnant Serena Benson exists. At least only one that Olivia has ever seen. The hunger she had felt for some love to reflect off her mother's face was indescribable, and so when she thinks about the tumultuous nine months that followed her conception, when she thinks about the absence of a glow on her mother's face in that single picture, she remembers the shame she symbolized and the knowledge that she did not know love. She wonders if alcoholism can be predicted. If Audrey Bennett gets through these months, Olivia wonders if she will get through the next year. And if she does, will Jose Cuervo or Jack Daniels be at her side? She concedes to her weaknesses; she surrenders to the insecurities she strives to hide and the fragility that few times has been exposed; from a shadowed corner she begs that peace and calm will follow the nine-month storm. She wants to believe that Audrey Bennett is injured but not broken. A part of her wants to believe, is dying to believe, that Audrey's child will know love.

And so as she sits in the car, captivated by the serenity that embraces New York City on early winter mornings, when the canvas of the sky radiates subdued rays of light, she wants to believe that sometime in the next two months Audrey Bennett will glow; that sometime in the next two months she'll smile for a camera and be able to reflect on nine months that weren't entirely devoid of any satisfaction; that when her child is born Audrey Bennett will discover love instead of repugnance.

Olivia suddenly jerked forward, the seatbelt pushing her back into the seat and leaving its mark across her chest. The sound of car horns broke through the silence in the car and she turned towards the driver's seat, looking at a red-faced Elliot muttering obscenities under his breath. "Son of a bitch cut me off," he grumbled as if it were explanation enough. He cast a glance at Olivia, offering her apologetic eyes and a deep, soothing "Sorry 'bout that."

She turned back to look at the street, spotting the black SUV that had interrupted her thoughts, now a good two blocks away. Elliot's voice kept her at bay, its dark tone surprisingly soothing. "All right Liv, what's going on?"

She rolled her eyes, resting her face against the glass and letting out a shallow breath. "Does something have to be wrong?"

He glanced at her once more before returning his attention to the road, "No, it doesn't, but you haven't even suggested stopping for coffee. So, what's going on?"

Olivia didn't bother to look at Elliot but continued to press her forehead against the cold window, the temperature seeming to alleviate the impending headache forming behind her eyes. She watched as her breath settled on the pane and perched her elbow on the door frame, running her hand through her hair and tilting her head back against the seat. "I can't get Audrey Bennett off my mind. She's so scared, but seems so empty, too. There was this void in her…I wonder if my mom felt like that? These cases, where someone so young and spirited is injured time and again, they really get to me. I know I shouldn't let them but they do." She paused, running her left hand along her thigh, bringing it a bit closer to her chest. "I want to say that all victims are the same, that no single case is more horrible than another but right now I can't. I don't think I can."

* * *

John sauntered up the sidewalk, the concrete pavement cracked from the roots of trees that had lifted the foundation, while girls in white blouses and navy jumpers ran past him leaving only the remnants of small giggles. He looked towards Fin, clearing his throat to call to his attention.

"Administrator's office is this way," he said walking up the now pebbled walkway, thick, leafless trees towering above and casting web-like shadows on the snow.

John reached into his front pocket and produced a spiraled notepad, a ballpoint pen hanging off a small chain linked through one of the wire rings. He flipped the cover over, thumbing through the first few pages with wool clad fingers, finally settling on the most recent additions. He turned to Fin who was now walking alongside him before continuing. "Hewitt is divided into three groups- lower, middle, and upper school. Head of the upper school is a Mrs. Kimberly Dawson," he said as they neared the entrance hall to the Gothic architecture stone exterior building. "Sweet lady, very forthcoming with information," he added snidely, pulling open the heavy oak door leading into the office.

* * *

The antique grandfather clock towered from the corner of the ample office, to its side three wooden chairs, their frames thick and cushions lush. The rich cherry circulation desk was foreground to the window bay where the rays of light argued with the piles of snow that lay scattered on the branches of pine trees, the diffracted patterns of light teasing the windows. The minute hand shifted and sat snugly pointing up at the twelve; the iridescent pendulum that had hung still now swung, the weights behind the beveled glass fluctuating as the bob swayed

_left…right…left…right…five…six…left…eight…_

At a quarter after the door to Fin's right finally opened, a tall brunette woman in her mid-forties stepping out and leading a young girl to the front desk. She turned sharply on her heel, coming face to face with John. She nodded curtly and lifted her left arm, indicating for the detectives to enter her office, an annoyed smile plastered across her face. She walked back around her desk, sitting in the mahogany chair and leaning back away from them, fingers laced below her chin. She eyed the detectives coolly, far removed from them and the situation at hand, her cold and beady eyes surveying the two men. "I take it one visit was not enough, Detective Munch?" she asked, annoyance dripping from her voice as she crossed her fingers loosely and settled them in her lap, her thumbs resting at the base of her hands.

John leaned forward in his chair, his left elbow on the armrest supporting most of his body weight. "With all due respect Mrs. Dawson, this is a delicate criminal investigation. As I told you on Monday, it is critical for us to speak with other students, regardless of how many attempts it takes. The more cooperation we get from the school, the faster we'll be out of here."

She studied his expression, recognizing the resolve etched across his face, and succumbed to his request, realizing that the pair would not leave until the necessary information had been gathered.

"There is a reason parents pay us thirty thousand dollars each year for their children's education. We provide outstanding instruction, opportunities, and resources for our students. Badgering and questioning by the NYPD is not something we list in our school profile," she said, fixing her glare on Fin. "That being said, with the holidays approaching and the semester coming to a close the students are in the midst of preparing for final exams. I would appreciate it if your presence and prodding did not interfere with their routine."

She turned her chair away from the detectives and focused on the wide computer screen on her desk, her long fingernails tapping an erratic rhythm on the keyboard. She reached behind her for the papers being dispensed by the printer and brought them before her, licking her index finger to better skim the pages. Reaching across her desk, Mrs. Dawson handed John the small stack.

"You'll find a map of the grounds along with Audrey's schedule from last spring there. You are free to speak with faculty and students provided their routine is not disturbed. I would suggest speaking with Ms. Clarke from the art department. She is the photography instructor and shared a close tie with Audrey. She may be able to give you some answers or point you in the right direction. However, to access Audrey's lockers and belongings you must bring a warrant. We can't have parents going up in arms about fourth amendment rights."

Fin looked over at John, a mixture of pleasant surprise and relief masking his face. "If Audrey's not a student here, how come her locker is still in use?"

The tall woman stood, approaching the door and propping it open with her heel. "All of our students have lockers as long as they remain registered and dues are paid in full. Audrey Bennett's parents paid tuition through graduation when they enrolled her. Frankly, we were surprised when she left last spring, but Mrs. Bennett assured us that she would return in the fall and arrangements were made for her to complete her studies once she returned. Since she is still a student, per se, her locker has not yet been emptied."

John nodded, suddenly excited by the new prospect, and stepped out the door, turning to face Mrs. Dawson before leaving. "Thank you," he said, the first signs of a smile in the last three days finally appearing on his face.

* * *

Melinda Clarke sat at a light table, brown strands of hair falling past her shoulder, strips of black and white negatives splayed across the table; a stack of prints sat to one side, the faces of children and families gleaming during candid moments. She heard the approaching footsteps followed by a soft knock at her door, and without looking up said, "Come on in, I'll be with you in just a minute."

She slid a large negative into a protective sleeve, removing the pair of white fabric gloves and setting them aside before flipping the switch that darkened the table once more. The room was large, multiple light tables scattered throughout with stools situated on each side, viewing boards along two of the walls. To the back there was a small hallway leading to the darkroom and a large window spanned the fourth side of the room. The teacher swung around on the stool and stood, walking in the direction of the men. John studied her as she approached them. Melinda Clarke was young, no more than thirty years old, with an elegant and refined air; she towered over Fin, extending nearly six feet tall. She removed the blue frames from her face and crossed her arms in front of her, the glasses teetering between her fingertips.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her blue eyes studying the two detectives and her teeth pressing down on the pink flesh of her bottom lip.

Fin took a step forward and reached into his pocket for the golden badge that, after all these years, had yet to lose its luster. "NYPD," he said, flipping the cover and flashing the item. "Detective Tutuola and this is my partner, Detective Munch," he continued, turning his head in John's direction while returning the shield to his pocket.

She looked at the two men, a puff of her warm breath creeping past her lips as she closed her eyes and dropped one arm to her side, the other one pressed snugly against her body. "You are here about Audrey Bennett," she stated, turning towards her stool and perching delicately on its edge, motioning for the men to sit on the empty chairs.

"Every year, as part of our history and government education, students in their eleventh and twelfth year go to Washington – Congress, Capitol Hill, and such. Our buses didn't come in until late last night. I didn't know about Audrey until this morning." She stood up and walked around the light table, heading for the large window that overlooked the schoolyard. The blinds were closed, only a few rays of the morning sun seeping into the classroom, the atmosphere stiff and bleak. She reached for the handle, turning it gradually so that light filtered into the room, softening the harsh expressions carved into their faces. Melinda turned away from the window, her face flushed and eyes glossed by the early film of tears; she ran her fingers along her lids, discarding the scattered, moist beads. "I'm sorry. It's just that Audrey was my student and friend. I can't believe that after everything she has been through…" her voice trailed off, only the murmurs of unspoken thoughts remaining. The room fell silent, for a few passing seconds when the only sound came from the second hand on the clock that hung over the doorway. She looked at John, her eyes pleading with him, the unspoken request to let her help being communicated. "Please, continue. What can I do to help? Have you gotten any leads?"

John finally spoke up, deciding that Melinda Clarke's forthcoming attitude might reveal the details they so desperately needed. "We were hoping you knew something that could lead us to finding out who hurt her. How well do you know Audrey?"

"Audrey is a very talented young woman. Dedicated. Artistic. Brilliant. She has the ability to do something great. She doesn't believe that yet, but I know it. She would spend hours here after school. It's hard not to get to know someone when you spend so much of your time with them, you know? Audrey's class met at the end of the day. It was a small group and on most afternoons the girls would stay behind to work in the darkroom, sometimes late into the night. We were a tight knit group."

"And who would that be?" John asked, his notepad situated in his left hand with the pen gripped in his right, eager to finally make note of something.

"Jessica Richards and Evelyn Harris. You might want to talk with them, see if they have kept in touch with Audrey. They were both a year younger than her, but they were her best friends. The girls were inseparable."

John looked at Fin, his face obviously reacting with some surprise. He flipped through the pages littered with scribbles in black and blue, dog-eared pieces of paper scattered among leafs of information. Clearing his throat, he said, "On Monday Mrs. Dawson told me, and I quote, 'Audrey was a loner. She had very little interaction with others'. Care to explain?"

The woman glanced at John, her eyes tainted with irritation. "Dawson wouldn't know. Besides, that woman never cared for Audrey," she said, a mixture of venom and annoyance lacing her voice. "As far as she was concerned, the Bennett's were, for lack of a better word, snobs. She never hid her jealousy for them, even if it has been disguised as disapproval." She approached the detectives before continuing. "With all due respect, Detective. If you really want to know who Audrey Bennett is then I would suggest speaking with someone other than Mrs. Dawson about her. Yes, she was quiet. Reserved around certain people. But she wasn't a loner and she wasn't an arrogant snob as Dawson would have you believe." She turned away from the detectives, her fists clenched at her sides. "I can't believe she'd say that!" she murmured through an exasperated breath.

She looked back at the pair, her hand resting on the corner of the light table. "Talk to Jessica and Evelyn. They intern at the MOMA on Wednesday and Friday mornings. You can speak with them here this afternoon. They have Advanced Photography after lunch. "

While John's hand scribbled furiously on the small, six by three inch pad, Fin spoke up. "We'll do that, but first, a few more questions. Did you notice anything peculiar about Audrey's behavior last spring? Any indication that something was wrong before she dropped out?"

Melinda grabbed at the clip that held her hair back, letting down the heavy tresses. She ran her manicured fingers through the locks, gathering it at the base of her neck. "Audrey didn't really drop out. She was 'sick' during the last few weeks of the semester. Kimberly Dawson would have you believing Audrey was unappreciative, undedicated, and undeserving of a Hewitt education. I know Audrey wasn't really sick those last few weeks, but I had hoped she would return this fall." She returned the blue glasses to her face, hinging them on the bridge of her nose and returning to the stool in front of the light table. The stack of prints situated on the table sat on a binder filled with sleeves and images. "Last May, Audrey came in one day with a cast on her right arm. She was quiet, upset, and unlike her approachable demeanor, evasive. The broken arm was, as she put it, 'ruining her project'."

"And what project was that?" John asked, having paused his dedicated note taking to approach the table.

"At the end of each term art students are required to study a subject and compose a comprehensive portfolio of fifteen images for peer review. By the time May came around most of them were working on their prints," she said, finally settling on a page towards the middle of the book and swinging it around on the table to show the two men. "Audrey was shaken. Something was going on and she pulled back. She rarely wore make-up but once she had the cast on she had it caked on her face. Maybe others didn't notice it yet, we spent so much of our time together that it was hard not to. I think she was covering something up…" she said, resting her elbow against the wooden fixture. "For someone that was always complaining about it being too hot in the room, she wore the uniform sweaters for the remainder of the year. I knew something was wrong when she stopped staying after class but she wouldn't talk and Katherine Bennett insisted there was nothing to worry about."

"You must have been really close to Audrey to have noticed all that," Fin said, his head angled towards his shoulder.

"Audrey was special. She reminded me a lot of myself at her age. She was ambitious and devoted to the art. It was what she wanted to do. What she wanted to pursue. But, it was also a great source of conflict with her parents. Her dad especially, he saw this as a glorified hobby and nothing more."

She brought her finger down, tracing the plastic cover that protected sheets of black and white images. On the left page was a picture of a blonde girl, her laughter and apparent happiness radiating from the photograph. Her face devoid of pain and filled with the promises of a vivid and promising future. Her head was thrown back, her hair falling past her shoulders and her mouth parted open, the laughter tangible on the two dimensional image. A large camera hung around her neck; her fingers clasping it like it were oxygen, a source of existence. A small and light object that breathed into her and brought her to life, leaving a glow on her face and light in her eyes. The short blonde stood at her side, her back pressed against Audrey's with her chin resting on her shoulder, her eyes looking past the camera. The mirror in the back of the room in the picture showed the reflection of the photographer. Melinda Clarke with shorter hair, her face obscured by the curls that still managed to fall over her face and her focus resting on the medium format camera that rested against her chest, focusing on the two girls and the spirit evident on the eight by ten print.

On the facing page was another image taken in the classroom, more subtle and candid in nature. Rows of girls sat at their tables, prints and negatives lying across the lit surface. In the front row, near the window, sat Audrey Bennett, her right arm bulky under the dark sweater and her hair shielding the majority of her face.

"You see this? This was the Audrey we knew," Melinda said, her fingers sweeping over the image. Her other hand came down on the facing page, resting over the corner of the page. "And this…" she let out in a hushed voice, hints of distress coating it. "This is Audrey in mid-May, about a couple of weeks before she stopped coming to class."

Fin leaned over the side of the table, studying the images closely, his eyes drawn to the stockier arm. "Did you keep in touch with Audrey after that?"

She cupped her cheek and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "I tried," she said, hesitating for a few seconds, the incessant second hand on the clock seemingly echoing in the classroom. "But she didn't want company. She didn't want to talk with anyone. And when I asked Katherine Bennett about it, she insisted there was really nothing to worry about." She paused, flipping through remaining pages until she found the last of Audrey's pictures in the album. "I met with her over the summer a few times. I was surprised she let me. The first time we were supposed to meet for morning coffee, but she never showed and I ended up going to her apartment. Her parents were out and when she let me in, God," she whispered, her voice trailing and becoming obscured as she pressed her face into her hands, her body trembling and causing her hair to disperse over shoulders.

In John's mind he no longer saw Audrey Bennett as a flat and lifeless victim. As a static personality. Over the course of the last half hour, Melinda Clarke had colored the unsaturated sketch of the young girl. She had given the detectives the third dimension, a before and after, and a timeline. A series of anecdotes and seemingly unimportant details that synthesized into a complex and lively girl. A surge of guilt settled in John's stomach, a voice accusing him for his lack of progress over the last two days. A voice reminding him that just because he couldn't get justice for Renee didn't mean that Audrey would suffer the same fate. An insignificant yet annoying voice that accused him of letting his personal life cloud his ability to perform. One that was hushed by the memories of Renee's voice which now whispered encouragement to him. He rested his hand on Melinda's shoulder, giving the woman who obviously cared for Audrey assurance and comfort. "What happened when Audrey opened the door Ms. Clarke?"

A sniffle escaped from beneath her shroud, her head lifting to expose her blotchy and moistened face, her hand running across her upper lip, wiping at her nose. "She looked awful. She was in sweats, her hair was pulled away from her face and her eyes were sunken in. I had to force her to let me in, and once she did she ran towards the bathroom. I thought she was sick, just with the flu or some other bug, but as the morning wore on I realized she was pregnant."

She held up her hand, palm facing outwards, stopping Fin from asking the question that never made it off his lips. "I've been pregnant before. Twice. I know the symptoms and I can see it on a woman's face. Audrey was pregnant," she said with affirmation. "And before you ask, no, I don't have children. I had a miscarriage each time."

Fin looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She brushed off Fin's comment, refusing to let the conversation focus on her. "I stayed for about three hours, making small talk and trying to keep her company. Or trying to lift her mood. By noon she seemed drained so I decided to leave and made a promise to come by again. She only asked that I not do it while her parents were in. So I dropped by about three times a week. By early August the small bulge began to show from underneath her shirts." She reached into a crook that was isolated under the table, pulling out a bottle of water, condensation droplets forming along its neck and dribbling down its sides. She ran her hand along the plastic coating, wiping away the water droplets and flicking her wrist at her side, the globules scattering to the floor. "I expected her to clam up when I finally asked her about it. But she admitted it and said she was four months along. I may not teach math but I can do simple addition." She twisted the cap on her bottle, the snapping motion being the only sound in the room, and proceeded to drown half the bottle of liquid.

The men looked at one another, their eye contact communicating an unspoken affirmation, facial expressions agreeing with their previous assessment, stiff postures prepared for a few more blows of the truth.

"And?" John asked, urging her to continue and confirm their suspicions.

"Everything - my training, my experiences, my observations- they all told me that Audrey had been assaulted. It fit to a tee." She bit her lip again, her chin jutting out to the side. A simple act performed under stress. A habit for moments that evoked thoughts and memories to storm. A weight on delicate matters.

John opted to ignore her reference to experiences, deciding it would not help in their investigation. Fin's accusatory voice interrupted his thoughts and her narrative. "If you thought she had been assaulted, why didn't you do something about it?"

She cast a glare at him, obvious distaste radiating from her. "I don't like what you are implying, _Detective_," she said, stressing the last word. "I did everything I could. I tried to get her parents to see the situation for what it was. Not some freak accident like Mrs. Bennett saw it but as a violation. I encouraged her, begged her, to let Audrey go see someone about what was going on. But she didn't listen. She may have been a great mother but when it came to this instance, denial was her religion. I went back to Audrey. I told her I understood. I told her she could talk to me. And you know what she said?" she asked, a newfound energy surging through her blood fueled by Fin's approach. Not waiting for an answer she continued. "She said I was wrong. Said that it was one night with the wrong boy. And then she begged me to leave it alone. She begged me to drop it. Finally I decided she needed my support and friendship more than my insistence. I tried the best that I could so don't you dare go saying I didn't do anything."

Her voice forbid any argument and left Fin stunned. Deciding that it was best to avert disaster John spoke up. "Forgive my partner. He tends to stick his foot in his mouth. Really lacks in people skills, you know?" he said with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

She sighed, pushing away from the table and walking towards the isolated corridor in the back of the room. "My next class starts in ten minutes. So if you aren't afraid of the dark and still have questions, follow me," she said, disappearing into the darkened maze.

Fin and John stepped into the darkened chamber, the only light radiating from a red lamp hanging overhead. A large basin sat in the middle of the room, trays filled with liquid situated in rows. Melinda exited a side closet wearing a long plastic apron and oversized plastic gloves, carrying a heavy white bucket, its colorless contents emptying into the containers.

She let the water run into the basin, adjusting the temperature as it filled the tub. Leaning against the stand, she turned her face to look at John, averting Fin's eyes. "When Audrey's parents died in August, she cut off all ties. The last time I saw her was at their service. I called, stopped by, emailed her, and left messages. The only assurance I had that she was alive was on the rare occasions when she answered one of my calls. On two separate visits that I made to her apartment, she talked to me through the door. Saying that I couldn't help her. That nobody could. She insisted that I stay away. The last time I spoke with her was over a month ago." Her voice was drained. Weary. An indication of an exhaustion caused by too many failed attempts. Too many shortcomings as a friend. Too many unsuccessful efforts to tear down walls.

John detected the sudden loss of momentum, the feeling when frustration and disappointment overpower reason. "Ms. Clarke, I only have a couple more questions for you," he said, his hand propped on the side of the large basin.

"Go ahead," she said, nodding at John and returning to the task of arranging the trays.

"Where did Audrey keep her work? Her prints and materials?"

She looked at John, tossing her head to one side, flipping the strands of hair that had come loose back over her shoulder. "All the girls have lockers. Audrey's is located in one of the halls, I'm not exactly sure as to which one. Her second one is on the other side of this room. The girls keep their prints, chemicals, papers and other supplies there. I'd open it for you but Audrey is the only one who knows the combination. And without warrants, Dawson will have you out of here before you can say 'arrogant bitch'."

"I see," John said, adding a few more scribbles to the pages he'd written on over the last half hour. He considered his next question, realizing that he was most likely chasing a dead-end hunch. He looked up again and continued, "You also said that your students were working on their term projects. Did you know what the subject of Audrey's was?" he asked, rolling the pen between his fingertips.

She nodded, having finally put the bucket away, and approached the maze that led back into the classroom, motioning for the detectives to follow. She leaned against the glass window and crossed her arms, nodding her head. "A portrait on crime in Manhattan."

Fin turned to Munch, pulling his arm and leaning towards his shoulder. "Novak's gotta get us a warrant for Audrey's stuff. I have a feeling something's on those pictures."

John let a shallow 'yeah' escape his lips, taking a few steps forward. "Thank you for your help Ms. Clarke. You have really helped us out," he said, extending his hand towards hers. She extended her hand, shaking it loosely in his grasp.

"You're welcome. Um, Detective," she said, her unspoken question seeming to linger in the air.

"Yeah?"

"Where is Audrey right now?" she asked, a tinge of optimism icing the question.

John had tied his coat around his lanky form; his expression slightly softer than it had been in the morning, while Fin stood outside of the classroom. He relaxed his posture and turned towards the door, pausing at the frame and looking back at her. "Mt. Sinai's," he answered, his hand trailing behind as he waved her goodbye.

Melinda Clarke looked around the room, still bathed in a shallow light. She approached the shades, drawing the string towards her slowly, the light finally filling the area and chasing away the darkness of conversations and truths. Her lip turned up slightly, and she closed her eyes as the sun let its warmth wash over her. A hushed phrase escaped her lips and disappeared into the empty space where the only noise continued to come from the clock that tantalized her with the passage of time. "Thank you."


End file.
